


Sinking fast

by ayumie



Series: The Price of Victory [2]
Category: A Knight's Tale (2001)
Genre: M/M, Shameless Smut - again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 03:00:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16508081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayumie/pseuds/ayumie
Summary: I just couldn't help myself - this sequel demanded to be written.





	Sinking fast

**Author's Note:**

> I just couldn't help myself - this sequel demanded to be written.

William was drunk. He had managed to maintain that state for the better part of a week, something which had eventually had even Chaucer throw up his hands in frustration. His condition, some vestige of sanity whispered into his mind, might also be the reason for his current location. William took another swallow, rolling the heavy, red wine in his mouth. Perhaps this had been a mistake. He glanced uneasily at his surroundings, comparing the lavish trappings to his own sparsely furnished tent. This most certainly had been a mistake. However, just as Will was about to make his escape, heavy canvas rustled. Adhemar. It had been almost 8 months and, at the first sight of each other, both men froze. With stubborn pride, Will made himself relax into the padded armchair he had chosen. Adhemar, too, recovered quickly, surprise replaced by his customary arrogance.

“Sir Thatcher. You keep turning up in the most unexpected places. Tell me, which of my men shall I have to dismiss?”

Trying to clear his thoughts, Will shook his head. He could feel Adhemar's gaze rake him up and down.

“You look terrible.”

Squeezing bloodshot eyes shut, Will said the only thing he could think of.

“She got married two weeks ago.”

Adhemar merely shrugged.

“She is no longer any of my concern. As you might have heard, I recently celebrated my own wedding. A French comtesse – we are hoping for a son before the year is out.”

“Jeanne-Marie,” William pronounced carefully, still not quite able to believe that the other man had kept his word. “All of sixteen years old. She's no Jocelyn.”

“She most certainly isn't. My lady wife knows her place.”

“She must be boring you to death.”

Which, strangely enough, made Adhemar laugh. William tilted his head as he drew closer, trying to watch as the other man circled around him. Out of the corner of his eye, Adhemar was a dark shadow looming behind him.

“So what brings you here, Sir Thatcher? Invading my tent, helping yourself to my wine...”

“Yes. No. I don't know. I'd better leave.”

As he made to get up, however, a hand shot forward, snake-swift as it clamped down on his shoulder.

“No. Stay. I think you know exactly what you want, Sir Thatcher. Do you think about it often? Being mounted like a bitch in heat? It didn't take much, did it?”

Adhemar's voice was close to his ear now, low and rough and laced with the familiar edge of desire. Anger would have been good, as would have protest, but William's mind was curiously blank. That confident hand slipped from his shoulder and down to his chest, finding a nipple through the cloth of his tunic. A sharp pinch tore something between a moan and a sob from his lips.

“Perhaps I should send you away. Just like this. I'm sure you'd be able to find some wench to take your coin. But then, she wouldn't have what you need, would she? You could tell one of your little friends, but you wouldn't want them to know their hero has been playing the slut. Or … you could undo your pants.”

Almost instantly William's hands, which had been clutching at the armrests, dropped into his lap. There didn't seem to be any point in denying what was about to happen. Perhaps Adhemar had been right. Perhaps this was why he had come here.  
The lacing of his pants was uncomfortably tight, scraping over sensitive flesh as it was pulled loose. Finally William's cock sprang free, flushed and eager. A sharp breath hissed against his ear, followed by another teasing flick of his nipple.

“Good. Now run the tip of your finger up and down the shaft.”

For once it was the easiest thing in the world to do as Adhemar had commanded. Then, acting on impulse, William brushed his thumb over the tip and brought it to his mouth, tasting himself. That got him a stifled curse. Then, suddenly, Adhemar leaned forward, hand reaching down to grasp William's cock.

“Hook your leg over the armrest. Now touch your balls. Yes. Further down.”

William whimpered as he thrust into that large, calloused hand, whimpered again as his own finger pressed against the sensitive skin behind his balls. He could feel Adhemar's eyes on him, feel his breath against his neck. A sharp tug and William came, would have screamed if he hadn't remembered that he was bound to be overheard. He was given no time to recover. Even though he was still in a daze, William was urged to his feet and a few trembling steps forward. Adhemar's bed was soft and heaped with furs and for a few blessed minutes everything was quiet.

“If you fall asleep, I shall be insulted.”

The bed dipped as Adhemar sat down. Neither man moved. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, William pulled his tunic over his head and kicked off his shoes and pants. Adhemar reached into the bowl he had brought and, with surprisingly gentle touches, ran a wet cloth over William's thighs and stomach.

“Have you ever thought of going to war, Sir Thatcher?”

Instantly wary, William lifted his head. Adhemar's voice was still hoarse with lust, eyes heavy-lidded, but his tone was almost conversational.

“To kill and pillage? No. I'm doing well enough on the lists.”

“Yes, perhaps. For the time being. But the battlefield is where lands are won. But be that as it may. You got what you wanted. It is my turn now.”

This time, William was ready. He was also starting to sober, which made it even easier push himself up and face Adhemar. Again there was that complex mix of emotions he had come to associate with the other man – anger and apprehension and excitement. Except that now the whole thing had been irrevocably poisoned with lust. Adhemar's skin was surprisingly soft, but the muscles that tensed at his touch were pure steel. William smiled slowly. He could get used to this, he thought, as he ran down his hand that broad chest. 

“So, the last time we talked about Jocelyn. Why don't you tell me about your wife now? Does she just lie there, when you bed her?”

Without waiting for a reply, William leaned in for a kiss. The first taste was enough to make him groan and then it was just like he remembered: An assault of lips and teeth and tongue, more of a battle for dominance than anything else. It was exactly what he had been needing. Without breaking contact, William let his hand slip further down, fingers fumbling with the lacing of Adhemar's pants. The angle was awkward and he was more than a little distracted, but in the end he managed. After a last sharp nip, he pulled back. When Adhemar would have pushed him back into the furs, William caught his wrist.

“No.”

After a few tense seconds, Adhemar subsided. William drew in a sharp breath. For a moment, the two men stared at each other, neither quite sure what to do. Something was changing, had changed, but William couldn't have said what. Instead he dropped his gaze, looked at the flesh he had just bared. Things had been so frenzied the last time, so far beyond his realm of experience he hadn't caught more than a glimpse. This was … different. And still Adhemar wasn't moving, was letting his hand roam where it would. William briefly dug his fingernails into that flat stomach.

“So where were we? Oh yes, your wife. Does she ever do that?”

“She would, if I commanded her.”

“What about this?”

Acting on impulse, William leaned forward and brushed his lips over the place where neck joined shoulder. Then he bit down, harder than he would have with anyone else, tasting salt and musk. Adhemar gave something between a chuckle and a groan.

“You are confusing marriage with sport, Sir Thatcher. Should I educate you in the ways of noblemen?”

A large hand reached up, fingers twining into William's hair to pull his head back. This time he didn't protest. He bared his teeth, already half-aroused again. Worse than that, he felt alive for the first time in weeks. Blood was rushing through his veins the way it did on the lists, hammering in his ears, making him feel light-headed. Adhemar was studying him. The flickering torchlight was casting his face into shadow, gilting the line of a cheekbone, the curve of his jaw. The thought of how he himself must be looking – naked, golden, arching against the other man's fist – was enough to wrench a gasp from William's lungs. Adhemar's grip tightened.

“A wife, Sir Thatcher, is a lady of noble blood. She brings honor to your house and bears your children. She may be chastised, should her behavior warrant it, but to demean her would be to demean yourself.”

Adhemar paused, fingers tracing the ugly, jagged scar on William's shoulder.

“Peasant whores on the other hand – why, you might do anything at all to them.”

Something must have shown on William's face because Adhemar's smile deepened, grew cruel.

“What, your old master never tumbled a serving girl in the hay and left her without a second glance? Do you imagine the Black Prince is gentle, when his blood is up after battle?”

Both men were breathing harshly, the name Jocelyn unspoken between them. Jocelyn. Beautiful and capricious and married to someone who could offer her the lifestyle she was accustomed to. She, too, had taken her pleasure, hadn't she? Abruptly, Adhemar's grip relaxed, hand sliding down to cup William's nape. Their heads were close, forehead to forehead, as intimate as a lover's confession. William knew exactly what to say.

“So what are you going to do to this peasant whore?”

Another challenge, like pushing his visor down. He was prepared for the impact, had learned to absorb a blow long before he had first ridden a charge. Even in his current state of lust and intoxication he might have managed to twist aside, might have wrenched free. William let himself be knocked back into the bedding. He gasped as he was roughly turned, one arm twisted behind his back to pin him in place. A battlefield maneuver, raw and savage with none of the ritualized grace of the joust. Turning his cheek into the soft fur beneath him, William shivered, skin prickling with the awareness of the body behind him, of its strength and bulk.

“You wish to know how I treat whores?”

Not trusting himself to speak, William shifted, testing the other man's hold. His body, his mere presence, was defiance enough. Adhemar swore again. They had always been aware of each other. Even in those early days when he had first become Sir Ulrich, William had straightened in the saddle whenever he had felt the other man's eyes on him, had gathered the reins to make his horse curve its neck and step high and proud. He had watched Adhemar whenever he had been able to, cutting short matches with sword or bow to study the other man's technique, the way he handled horse and lance with practiced ease. Not even victory had meant anything without him there to see it. Right now, face down on Adhemar's bed, William couldn't help but wonder whether some part of him had known even then. He gasped as large hands settled on his hips, urging his hips up. Different this time, utterly exposed and he was glad he was able to turn his face away, hide the blush creeping up his neck. Oil was dribbled between his ass-cheeks, the scent of it heavy, cloying. Expensive, William realized, probably bought expressly for this purpose. The last time it had been simple kitchen stuff. Adhemar couldn't have known, he told himself as he felt the slick liquid slide down to drip from his balls and cock. Too much of it, a waste really, and making a mess of the sheets. Such considerations probably never even occurred to Adhemar. 

William squeezed his eyes shut as the pad of a thumb – broad, callused – pressed against his opening. He shifted, pushing his shoulders into the bedding, angling his hips more sharply.

“God-”

Barely more than a whisper. William bit his lip to swallow an answering moan. He should be feeling helpless, humiliated, but all he could find in himself was a wild, reckless sense of exhilaration. He wanted more. More of Adhemar's fingers pushing into him, oddly gentle now. More of the slow, burning pressure. Most importantly, more of the savage pleasure knifing through him whenever he least expected him. Perhaps he was a slut or a whore or whatever else Adhemar might choose to call him, because surely being breached, being fucked by another man wasn't supposed to feel this good. Or maybe it was. Maybe that was why it was forbidden.   
And still it wasn't enough. William's breath sounded harsh to his own ears and, struggling to push himself up on trembling arms, he twisted, turned. Adhemar pulled back. For long seconds neither man moved, their ragged breaths the only sound in the tent. William took pride in the fact that he was the first to regain control. He turned fully, rolling onto his back. It seemed that it always came down to this.

Then Adhemar was against him, the bulk of him blocking out most of the light. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the weight of that body, the relentless stretch, push, drag of penetration. William's breath rushed from his body in a shuddering moan. All conscious thought receded as he was reduced to the feeling of Adhemar's cock splitting him open, long, so much thicker than his fingers had been. It was impossible to do anything but draw harsh, sobbing breaths, impossible not to squirm against the pressure. Nothing happened.

“Does it hurt?”

It took a moment for Williams sluggish mind to work out the words. Adhemar's voice sounded strained, but there was no venom in his tone, none of the mocking glee one might have expected. Blinking, William realized that the other man was actually trying not to inflict pain. It wasn't anything he was prepared to deal with. Then he knew exactly what to do.

“You can't hurt me.”

Like spurring on a horse. He arched into the next thrust, ignoring the way the muscles in his ass and thighs screamed protest. Sensations exploded through William's body, heat and friction and pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain. It would be so easy to let go, to allow himself to be carried away by the continued assault on his senses. Instead, William clenched his fists into the sheets, struggling to remain alert. This time, he didn't need to be told to keep his eyes open. He wanted to see. Adhemar was above him, against him, muscles straining under sweat-slick skin as every ounce of his strength was dedicated to maintain the savage rhythm he had set. There was no finesse about it, just the sharp snap of hips, hard, deep thrusts that had William shudder and gasp. Salt was burning in his eyes, but still he wouldn't look away. He knew what he was going to see. Not ownership or even triumph. Pleasure drained the tension from Adhemar's features, suffused those cold, green eyes with heat. It was like alchemy to watch the cruel line of that mouth soften and turn flushed, kissable.

Then Adhemar shifted and and the pleasure flared, growing brighter still. William knew he was making noises, desperate, keening moans. His cock was lying heavy on his stomach. It was so flushed it looked almost painful, leaking precum as it was jolted. Need was writhing in William's stomach, threatening to push through his skin. He needed touch, needed it as badly as he needed air in his lungs. Not his own, though. As though he had read his mind, Adhemar shifted again, reaching down to wrap a hard, callused hand around William's aching flesh. The next thrusts were harder still, stretching him impossibly and he couldn't help the way he clamped down against it even as his hips bucked. William convulsed, muscles spasming as his overtaxed body tried to deal with this new shock of sensations. He felt like he had that day on the lists, curiously afloat, light-headed with desperation. The world was singular, reduced to Adhemar. Adhemar's hand, Adhemar's cock, the feverish intensity of the collision they were hurtling towards. 

The impact was shattering. William's spine bowed as he came, wave after wave of pleasure crashing through him. He was vaguely aware of Adhemar's hoarse scream. Then even that was lost. 

William had no idea how much time had passed when he tried to push himself up. He was trembling badly and his stomach was churning. He needed to get up. He needed- He couldn't think of any course of action that would allow him to leave with even a modicum of dignity. He couldn't think. Vision blurring, William closed his eyes. In a few seconds he'd be better. It was just the wine. This wasn't defeat. In a moment he would shake off the arm resting heavily across his waist. He'd get up and start walking. He really, really would. 

*

Adhemar, count of Anjou, wasn't at all sure he could claim the night as a victory. On the one hand, William Thatcher was in his bed, well-fucked and quite visibly worse for wear. On the other hand, William Thatcher was in his bed, fast asleep and quite obviously not going anywhere. Mind shying from this train of thought, Adhemar disentangled himself. He rose quickly, ignoring the way his limbs wouldn't quite obey. There was water left in the basin, so he washed, liberally splashing his face and chest and groin. The pants he had discarded earlier felt scratchy on his wet skin. Deliberately ignoring the bed and its current occupant, Adhemar flung himself into the nearest chair. The leather creaked under his weight. This was where William had sat waiting for him. The sheer gall of it ought to be infuriating, but Adhemar found that his lips were curling into a smile. He reached for the goblet on the low table to his right – the goblet William had drunk from – and found that there was some wine left in it. His own wine, a heavy red he remembered ordering from Bordeaux. Fingers curling around the stem, Adhemar took a gulp. It tasted just as he remembered: Sweet and rich and potent. Nothing William Thatcher would be able to afford. His eyes strayed to the body sprawling on his bed. Not truly a boy, much as Adhemar liked to mock him as one. Strong muscles corded William's chest and arms, accentuating the broad shoulders, the narrow waist. Even now, wine-sodden and haggard with grief, William Thatcher was undeniably beautiful. Those longs months ago, when he had followed Sir Ulrich through the rain, Adhemar had thought that he had solved the mystery. It should have been over, then. If not in the filth and darkness of London's dungeon, the moment the unblunted point of his lance – deliberately leveled just a fraction to high – pierced his shoulder.

Mouth twisting, Adhemar gritted his teeth. He hadn't ridden in the joust since, torn by fury and wounded pride. His wedding had served as a convenient excuse, as had the campaign he had mounted in France last summer. And still William Thatcher had haunted him. A knight, perhaps, but a knight without lands, without prospects. An idea was niggling in the back of Adhemar's mind, born of a throwaway comment he had made earlier that night. It was ridiculous, of course. The men wouldn't follow a peasant boy into battle, no matter how golden, no matter how glorious. The very idea was laughable and yet laughter wouldn't come.

A murmur from the bed drew Adhemar's attention. William was rolling onto his stomach, exposing the long curve of his back, the swell of his ass. Instantly desire stirred in the pit of Adhemar's stomach, as primitive and vicious as it had been ever since the thought of fucking William Thatcher had first entered his mind. Adhemar finished the wine, carelessly dropping the goblet.

William barely stirred when the mattress dipped. He merely gave another mutter, lips curving sensually as they formed nonsensical syllables. Ademar lay on his side, not quite touching. Up close, the shadows under William's eyes were more prominent, as was the pallor of his skin. It didn't detract from his allure, not in any way that mattered. Only when he felt the roughness of stubble under his fingertips, did Adhemar realize that he had reached out. William made another of those little noises, leaning into the caress, sweetly pliant. An aberration. William Thatcher was an aberration to everything Adhemar believed to be true about how the world worked. Perhaps it was time to accept that much. It needn't, he told himself as he closed his eyes, necessarily be a bad thing.


End file.
